


Nice

by The Last Good Name (thelastgoodname)



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 17:26:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5300237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelastgoodname/pseuds/The%20Last%20Good%20Name
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andy and Stephen have something in common: they like to watch. Good thing Miranda likes to be watched.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nice

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Birthday, Telanu. (Explicit f/f and f/m sex.)
> 
> **References:** Finnerman, W. (Producer) and Frankel, D. (Director) (2006) The Devil Wears Prada United States: Fox 2000 Pictures.

Miranda, eyes still closed, listened to the click of the shutting door echo through the house. She could picture Andrea walking down the stairs, down the street, with her wide mouth open in shock and her huge eyes stunned. That innocent face, as if she did these things _by accident_ , walking in on an argument like that. Not bloody likely, as the girls' father would have said. That gorgeous stunned and terrified look, those eyes getting wider and wider as reality dawned on her--

She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she jumped when Stephen spoke. 

"What's her name?"

"What?" Miranda asked, not sure she heard him correctly. What was he getting at?

"Her name. Your assistant. The one who was just watching us."

Their eyes met. "Watching us?" she asked. Her palms tingled pleasantly in anticipation; they hadn't done this in quite a while. There hadn't been the opportunity.

They stared at each other for a moment, and then Stephen said, "Do you think she likes to watch?"

And just like that, Miranda was dripping wet. Andrea-- _Andrea_ \-- "Is there something you'd like to share, Stephen," she drawled, trying to contain herself.

He grinned lazily, and sauntered closer. "You know how much I like to share," he said, and then he reached out to grasp her cheek firmly. "And I know how much you like to be shared."

Her hands already trembling with need, Miranda reached for her own buttons. "And to think we were just fighting," she said. It came out a great deal more whispery than she was aiming for.

"We always are," he said, and kissed her. 

Ten minutes later, Stephen looked down and said, "Do it tomorrow." 

Miranda raised an imperious eyebrow.

"Don't give me that look," he said. "The girls are out of town, she's terrified of you but she wants you anyway, we don't have anything scheduled after 9. Do it tomorrow."

Miranda tried to roll her eyes but before she could get anywhere Stephen jerked his hips, gently pushing his cock deeper into her throat. Miranda automatically swallowed around it and Stephen repeated, "Tomorrow." 

She nodded, and began to suck.

* * *

Except that the entire day was a disaster, and she wasn't going to think about that stupid Harry Potter Book or the person who procured it, and on top of everything else, Miranda didn't get home until nearly ten.

"Where were you?" Stephen asked as soon as she hit the second floor.

Miranda didn't bother answering or stopping in her quest for the bedroom; she just wanted to get out of her hose and take a blistering hot shower.

"Miranda, she's going to be here in 45 minutes."

Miranda stopped dead and stared at him. "You want to--Tonight?"

"Why not?"

"Tonight?" she said again.

"Miranda," he said.

"I have had the day from hell, and now you want to--"

"You punished her, right?" he said unexpectedly. He was leering.

The blood rushed to her face, and of course Stephen noticed. She cursed her fair skin, perfectly aware that while her expression was blank, the color gave her away entirely.

"What happened?" he asked.

"She--she--" Miranda closed her eyes and took a deep, calming breath. "Yes. Tonight."

"Not going to tell me, huh?" he said. "Doesn't matter, I guess."

Miranda frowned at him, but he just grinned in response. She turned to continue up the stairs, and he waited until she almost had herself back under control before ruining it all by saying, "Wear the black basque."

She tried to glare at him, face aflame once more, but he just laughed. She couldn't really blame him.

When she came back downstairs twenty minutes later, freshly showered and wearing a sheer peignoir in royal purple instead, he shook his head at her. "At least you're wearing black underwear."

"Yes," she said, and straddled him. He settled his hands on her hips and they kissed leisurely. It was a comfortable kiss, even with the anticipation thrumming through her body and his hardness nestling between her legs. "My turn," she said, began to unbutton his shirt, stroking his chest and pulling his head down to her throat. 

He mumbled something against her skin and unclasped her bra. She moaned, and he continued, his open mouth barely touching her, skipping from neck to chest and back again, breath hot against her skin. She squirmed against him, already resigned to the stain that was going to end up on his pants from her own arousal, and in retaliation he clamped his teeth lightly around a nipple.

She cried out, sharply, and he began to scrap his teeth across her breasts, over and over again, toying with her nipples but never giving her enough, never enough.

"Stephen," she moaned.

"No," he said, and she trembled again, pressing down hard on his cock. "No, you have to wait."

"You don't," she said, and reached for his fly; maybe she could release some of her tension by helping him release some of his. He had other ideas, though, and grabbed her hands, forcing them behind her back, holding her wrists with one hand while he used the other hand to rip off her panties. 

"Steph--" she said again, but then his fingers were sliding through her lips and she had no more breath to speak. 

After a small eternity of that, he switched tactics and slipped his knuckles around her clit, teasing softly and whispering in her ear. "She's coming, with her annoying innocence and her brains that drive you wild and her enthusiasm you can't crush. She's going to be here any minute, and you're going to spread your legs for her and beg her and I'm going to watch it all."

She thrashed on his lap, straining and struggling to get just a little bit more of him to touch her, to go inside her, she needed him inside her, they could fuck while Andrea listened, surely that would be enough, surely she didn't actually have to let Andrea see--

Downstairs, the door opened.

Stephen immediately let go of her and pulled his fingers away. She cried out softly at the loss.

He smiled, and pushed her off his lap. As he made his way down the hallway, he said, "Lose the bra."

She shivered, watching him go. Once he had gone through the well-concealed doorway, she glanced around for her underwear. She spied them across the room, ripped neatly in half, and frowned. Wrapping the peignoir around her, she started in the opposite direction Stephen had gone; Andrea had just shut the closet door, so she had to be quick. 

At the top of the stairs she paused, and then, forcing herself not to think about what she was doing, slipped off the bra and readjusted the peignoir, crossing her arms across her chest to provide some semblance of coverage.

"Andrea," she called.

The was silence from the first floor.

After several moments, a tremulous voice said, "Yes?"

"Come here."

"Are you sh--Yes, Miranda."

Miranda took a deep breath and then shivered, the hard peaks of her breasts brushing against her chiffon-clad arms. She clenched her jaw to stop herself from doing it again.

It took eons for Andrea to reach the top of the stairs, and unlike the previous night, Andrea kept her eyes firmly fixed to the stairs as she climbed. When she reached the same level she had reached the night before, she pushed out the book to leave it on the stairs.

Miranda said, "Bring it here," and Andrea looked up ever so slightly.

The first thing she saw were Miranda's bare feet, and then, as Miranda stood there trembling, Andrea's eyes climbed her body. 

She had thought she had been aroused before, when Stephen had been fondling her. She had thought that she knew what it felt like to need relief.

She had no idea.

Andrea's eyes burned everywhere they touched, and they moved slowly, so slowly, taking in Miranda's exposed ankles and the edges of the peignoir and stroking up her calves to her thighs; Miranda had never felt so naked before, and Andrea hadn't yet spotted her mons. When she did, Miranda felt something slide down her thigh and whimpered; Andrea's eyes jerked upward to meet hers, and Miranda, already blushing, burned even hotter and wavered on her feet. 

Andrea stood still for a long moment, staring into Miranda's eyes. Miranda couldn't breathe.

And then Andrea's eyes dropped again, and rested on her cleft. Andrea was looking up at her, and Miranda struggled not to spread her legs immediately -- Stephen's voice echoed through her head -- and to wait. It was torture.

Andrea continued to stare, and Miranda continued to sway and drip. Her thighs were slick and her heaving chest rubbed her nipples against the thin fabric ceaselessly; she was so lightheaded she thought she might faint, and then Andrea took a step closer, and everything intensified. The throbbing in her head and between her legs, the pounding of her heart; she could barely move by the time Andrea was standing next to her, and she wanted to collapse on the floor right then and there and let Andrea take whatever she wanted.

But Stephen, they had agreed, and she had to--this wasn't just for her.

She reached out for Andrea's hand, intending to lead her but realizing as soon as they touched that she need the support. Andrea held her elbow, the perfect escort, and they followed Stephen's tracks down the hall. Miranda stumbled past the door Stephen had gone through, tugging Andrea behind her, and pushed open the door to her office.

The lights were low, and Miranda watched Andrea glance around once before pinning her gaze on Miranda once more. Without waiting for any sort of sign or prompt, not that Miranda could have provided one, Andrea grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back against her body.

They were facing into the room--facing the mirror--and Miranda was pulled flush against Andrea. Andrea was taller and still wearing her gold pumps. At the sight of them together, her nakedness visible under the purple peignoir and highlighted by Andrea's olive sundress, Miranda moaned. She had known they would look good, had known they would look perfect together, but not this good, not this perfect. Not like they belonged.

Andrea reached down and took Miranda's hands, still holding her wrap closed. Together, they parted the fabric, staring transfixed as more and more of Miranda's skin was exposed, from an initial triangle at her chest to the swell of her breasts, and down to the matching triangle between her legs.

"Nice," said Andrea, tracing Miranda's ribs with her fingertips when she was done and the peignoir hung wide open.

A distant part of Miranda's brain recognized that Andrea--and Stephen--could probably see how she was already panting, not to mention how tight her nipples were and possible even the slickness between her legs--and when had she spread herself open like that, when had she moved?--but she struggled to maintain some semblance of control. "Nice?" she said roughly. "Is that the best you can do?"

Andrea grinned, bright and unexpectedly innocent. "What would you prefer?" Her voice dropped a touch as she continued. "Wanton? Exposed?" Her voice dropped even more as she whispered into Miranda's ear. "Needy?"

Miranda whimpered.

"Because you are, Miranda," Andrea said, still tracing her fingertips, just the tips, just barely touching Miranda's flaming skin, up and down her sides, across her aching ribs. "You are so needy. Desperate, even. You need this, don't you."

"Yes," gasped Miranda. "Yes. _Yes_."

"Good," said Andrea, and spun Miranda around to look into her eyes. "And that's very nice."

Miranda couldn't redirect enough energy to disapprove this time, because Andrea's eyes were devouring her, eating her alive. She was burning up and at the same time soaking wet. If her head would stop pounding for just a moment, it might even be a pleasant sensation.

"Now, where should I start?" Andrea asked.

Miranda stared at her, but before her brain could engage her mouth did. "Anywhere," she said, "Anything." Well, at least Stephen always liked to hear her beg.

Judging by the way Andrea's breath stopped, perhaps they had something in common.

"Anything," Miranda said again, desperately, and suddenly Andrea's fingers were between her legs, delving and reaching and there was the burn and push of fingers inside of her, and she was full, stretched and open, hanging onto Andrea for dear life, gasping and panting and begging, saying words that she couldn't understand even as they escaped her throat. 

"Nice," Andrea murmured into her ear.

Without quite knowing how it happened, in a moment the hard, cool, wood of the door was behind Miranda's naked back and her leg was thrown over Andrea's shoulder, the softness of Andrea's skin and the green silk against her calf setting off little lights behind her eyes. And in addition to those clever long fingers filling her, there was also a hot wet mouth closing around her clit--and Miranda, helplessly pushed against the door and unable to close her eyes to her own image in the mirror and the thought of Stephen watching from behind it, shuddered and cried out and tried her hardest to impale herself on Andrea's arm.

"Well," said Andrea a moment later, while Miranda struggled and failed to get her breathing under control, "you're as quick at this as you are at everything else," and then she twisted her fingers somehow and her thumb was on Miranda's clit and without wanting it, without being able to stop it, Miranda was coming again, grasping at Andrea's hair and the door and shoving her hips wildly, without any control or rhythm at all. 

Wanton, indeed.

* * *

He didn't wait for Andrea to leave the house before he entered her. He tackled her in the doorway where she was hanging onto the jamb for dear life, pushing her down to the floor and then he was thrusting inside of her and she was coming for a third time in ten minutes, laying naked in her hallway and listening to the door close behind her second assistant.

* * *

Afterward, in bed, Miranda was staring intently at the ceiling trying not to think when Stephen spoke. She hadn't realized he was still awake.

Softly, he said, "Fuck."

"What?" Miranda said warily.

"You know what. I've never seen you like that."

"Like what?" He couldn't know. Unlike Andrea, he didn't know her that well. He simply couldn't--

"She's different," he said. "Isn't she."


End file.
